An Amber Shade of Grey
by JayMoore
Summary: A trip to Cardiff, a visit to the Holmes' place, some horse riding and a few twists along the way. Sherlock and John have really got to work to save the day this time, but will they?  Re-do of my other story of the same name. Rating may go up. NO SLASH.


**Hello! This is a re-do of my other story (now deleted) of the same name, there are only a few changed in this chapter, but I thought that the others were A. too boring, and B. too short. So here is the beginning of the _ revised_ version... Ooooh.**

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><p>It took about three hours to get from London Victoria to Cardiff station. Three hours that John Watson was spending entertaining a certain consulting detective. Sherlock was sat for the entire journey fidgeting like a child, wringing his hands and shifting his weight about in the seat. John watched him in his peripheral vision over the top of the book he was reading.<p>

Despite being on 'important (though undisclosed) business', Sherlock was dressed casually for once—casual for him, anyway: a dark shirt was covered by a burgundy v-neck jumper, and his jeans were dark and slim cut. If they were going trekking through Wales, Sherlock was certainly not dressed for the occasion. John meanwhile was as utilitarian as ever in navy chinos, walking boots and a chequered shirt.

Sherlock rested his head against the window that was looking out on Bristol train station, they had been stopped there for about twenty minutes now, and he was losing his patience in the Great Western train service.

"Sherlock," John slapped his book down on the table that separated him and Sherlock, earning him a few curious glances, "Would you stop wriggling; we're almost there." He snapped. Sherlock gave him a dark look that turned into a glare, which turned into a calculating stare, the one that made John extremely uncomfortable.

The train pulled out of that station with a jolt that made Sherlock bang his head against the window. John smirked as he rubbed the spot gingerly, "We're going backwards." Sherlock commented, "_I'm_ going backwards."

"Yes, we have to go back out and round. It's not much further." John explained.

"I've never been to Cardiff by train before."

"But you've been before?"

"Yes."

"How did you get there then?"

Sherlock paused before answering, "I flew or drove."

"I didn't think you could drive."

"I don't really remember. If I could before I've deleted it now." John nodded with a frown; he was sure Sherlock just used that as an excuse to cover up his stupidity half the time.

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><p>The Travel Lodge was about a ten minute walk away from the station when they got to Cardiff, but Sherlock managed to complain about things the whole way: it was warmer than London, it was colder than other costal towns, the air smelled strange, the Travel Lodge was too far away, the train station was in the wrong place, and the shops were wrong.<p>

When they got there John checked them in while Sherlock looked moody with his BlackBerry by the lifts, "Sixth floor," John smiled as he hit the lift call button, a card key in his hand. They headed up and started to look for their room; it turned out that hotels were rather good at hiding rooms.

"Is this it? Six-oh-three?" Sherlock called to John down the hall.

"Yes, yes that's the one." John jogged up to him as they let themselves in, "Oh." John was brought up short. They had ordered a room with two single beds, yet the room before them, which was apparently their hotel room, had a singular double bed.

"Hn," Sherlock muttered, "Well this is..."

"Wrong. I'll go and sort it out at reception." John interrupted before scurrying back downstairs.

By the time he was back to room six-oh-three Sherlock was curled up on the bed, his phone on charge next to him and his shoes kicked off at the foot of the bed, and an arm thrown over his eyes.

"Could you close the curtains, John?" Although it was the question John heard the demand in it, he moved across the room and plunged it into a semblance of darkness.

"We can't change the room. I can sleep on the floor or something; we can get some more pillows and another duvet—"

"No need," Sherlock cut in, "I'm going to be out for most of the night leaving the bed for you." He rolled on his back and stretched out his legs, "But for now I'd like to get at least a small amount of sleep." John sighed wondering what he could possibly do on his own in Cardiff for a few hours.

"Right, well, I'll just go out then," He pulled his coat back on as the grunted reply came from the bed.

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><p>Cardiff, John decided, was a very pretty city, with far too many coffee shops. He had counted about seven Starbucks, five Costas, and at least three Neros. He was sat in one of the Starbucks, watching people go in and out of the Little Waitrose opposite; people watching was something John had developed since he'd come back from Afghanistan, and even more so now he was living with Sherlock.<p>

He could tell who was married, and who unhappily so, who had kids at home, who worked nights, who smoked, who earned a lot of money and who earned little, even who was on benefits. He watched as a business woman, clearly on her lunch break, sauntered out in her patent heels and pencil skirt suit. She looked about mid-thirties, married, John noted, no children though otherwise she wouldn't look so professional or fresh; no bags under her eyes from late nights due to screaming children.

A very sudden pang of sadness struck within him, those late nights with screaming babies was something he doubted he would have now. He and Sarah weren't exactly a stable enough relationship for kids, and he doubted he would find someone to get serious with in time to have kids. It wasn't as though he had ever really wanted children of his own, he knew that when he joined the army, but there was just something about parenthood he felt he was missing out on.

Although, he thought slightly annoyed, looking after Sherlock these days is enough like parenthood for a real taste of it. He wasn't surprised when his phone chimed with probably a half asleep message from Sherlock:

"Buy pain killers and make sure the hotel room is stocked with tea. SH"

John tutted, drained his coffee and went off in search of Sherlock's supplies, and perhaps a new pair of boots.

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><p>Sherlock Holmes had always assumed he had a keen sense of danger, and enough common sense to keep himself, for the most part, out of it. So now, as he found himself being hauled by a rather large man into a brick wall, he wondered quite how he'd managed to get himself into this one. He winced as the skin on the side of his face was scraped down the brickwork, drawing blood, grazing deeply.<p>

With a vicious outcry, he launched himself away from the wall and took a swipe at his attacker. The hit connected and Sherlock felt skin filling the space under his nails, the tips of them were slightly bloody, a good hit then.

The fight was not over yet, a man like this did not work alone, he was hired muscle, which meant there would be more to come unless he made an almost impossible run for it. Quickly calculating, Sherlock dodged an elbow heading his way and took a jab at the larger man's stomach. When it hit he jabbed again and again, forcing the man back and eventually knocking the wind out of him, causing him to double over giving Sherlock enough time to regain himself and his balance and fire a sharp, solid kick at the man's already damaged ribs. He teetered and fell down with a sickening crack where his head hit the concrete pavement.

Sherlock only had a moment to recover and bask in his victory before it felt as though a canon had been shot into the back of his head. He fell, bruised and bleeding face first into the ground. A foot was pressed into his head, pressing the wound into the damp tarmac road.

"You'll stay away from here if you know what's best for you." The accent that growled into his lesser compressed ear was English, south, his articulation was university educated, though there was a hint of something else, foreign. The very last thing Sherlock Holmes registered before passing out was quite how much the cloth that was now over his mouth and nose smelt like chloroform.

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><p>The hotel staff were quite used to people staggering in at ungodly hours of the morning, so when the tall, pale man with a mop of messy, dark hair sticking out from under a hood tottered into the reception and stumbled towards the lift, they paid him no mind.<p>

John Watson however was not used to said man staggering about drunk at all, so when he looked at the clock that read three-twenty eight AM, he was slightly annoyed. Then it registered that Sherlock was staggering in at this time, _Sherlock._ He listened as Sherlock stumbled towards en-suite and then to the silence that followed.

John dragged himself out of bed and threw a cardigan on, "Sherlock?" He tapped a knuckle on the bathroom door before entering. Sherlock was slumped over the sink breathing heavily, John wasn't sure if he was being sick or couldn't stand up properly, or both. A couple of drops of blood were splattered on the counter next to the sink.

"John..." Sherlock breathed in reply, "In my b-bag... first aid..." He was cut off by a violent retch.

"Okay, yeah, look—" John put the top of the toilet seat down, "Sit there when you're ready, I'll grab it." When he returned with the small green bag of first aid equipment John almost smacked Sherlock in the face, then almost hugged him. With his professional face on he did neither, but he was trying hard to hold back that hug.

There was a graze down the side of Sherlock's face that was oozing blood and looking horrendous, his slip was split open and was dribbling blood down his chin. He was holding his ribs with quickly bruising fingers; John suspected that under the hooded jumper that he was wearing, there was going to be more bruising. The curiosity as to where the jumper had come from was almost entirely eclipsed by Sherlock's current predicament.

"Jumper off." John instructed as he ripped open the packet of an anti-septic wipe. Sherlock pulled the jumper over his head with a groan revealing a clean rip in his shirt that was edged with blood, "Sherlock, did someone try to _stab_ you?" John hissed, appalled.

"Yes."

"Well, take your shirt off, I need to see it." John watched Sherlock's fingers shake as he undid the buttons. The cut on his shoulder was a thin, clean line, about four inches across and not too deep, it looked as if someone had take a swipe at him with a knife as oppose to actually trying to stab him.

"This'll hurt." John murmured in his most practised doctor tones as he leant down to clean the cut. Sherlock hissed through his teeth and made to grab John's t-shirt. His fist balled up in the material as John wiped away the dried burgundy staining Sherlock's skin.

"My ribs ache." Sherlock breathed, "They really, really, hurt, John." His voice was not the whining, petulant tone that it usually was when Sherlock had a paper cut or some other minor wound, it was a really pained and breathless speech that made John's heart skip a beat in panic.

"Okay, I'll get there," He said gently and calmly. He ripped open a fresh anti-septic wipe getting ready to clean Sherlock's face up.

The graze looked horrific. It was scarlet and trickling blood still, worst over the more prominent parts of his bone structure: his cheekbone, chin and eyebrow. John pushed the dark curls away from his face and inspected the wound more closely and was fixed with a distressed grey-green eye; the wound was speckled with a dark smattering of grit.

"This will hurt more." John started at him for a long second with sincere apology on his face. The doctor could hear Sherlock's back teeth grinding together in anticipation to the pain. As softly as he could, John dabbed at the graze with his other hand on the other side of Sherlock's head, holding him firmly in place, "I'm sorry," John sighed as Sherlock flinched particularly violently.

"Nothing to be sorry for, John." Sherlock murmured as he closed his eyes.

"Well, you did get yourself into this state." John smiled kindly, trying to keep his eyes as warm as possible. He wasn't angry with Sherlock for waking him up at three AM or for being so bashed up, he wasn't even remotely annoyed that Sherlock had dragged him all the way out to Cardiff, how could he possibly be? His best friend clearly needed his help, and that was all that mattered for the moment. "There."

He traced another last line over the graze, before leaning back and examining the bruising on Sherlock's torso. He leaned for was giving John access to the worst side of the bruising. The purple and black mottled his usually pale skin in an ugly motif of violence. John pressed earning a wince from Sherlock.

"Tell me where it hurts the most when I press." He probed around Sherlock's ribs with gentle, calloused fingers.

"Agh, there!" Sherlock recoiled again.

"Take a deep breath in," John pressed softly, checking for fractures, "And out. In again... out... I'm pretty sure they're not broken, just bruised, okay?" Sherlock nodded, "C'mon, get to bed, I'll be back in a minute." John placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder and smiled for a moment; his skin was surprisingly warm, something so pale looked as if it should be cold, but Sherlock was radiating heat. John would keep an eye on that, just in case it was the beginnings of a temperature, it was a chilly night and Sherlock didn't need _another_ bout of pneumonia.

As John left, Sherlock sighed and heaved himself up. He washed his mouth out and spat blood. Replacing the first aid kit in his bag, he pulled out a t-shirt, pulling it over his head before wriggling out of his jeans, leaving them piled on the floor.

It only took him a second to take John's already warm side of the bed. It was only residual warmth, but it smelled of John a little, over the hotel cleanliness. It was reassuring, like a child's comforter or a mother's perfume. John was like the older brother that Mycroft never was and Sherlock loved him dearly for it.

When John returned he had a miniature of Glenfiddich and two tumblers. He perched on the edge of the bed, opposite Sherlock and poured him out a glass; he accepted it with a grimace and sniffed it, "I don't like whisky."

"It'll help." John grinned a little before swallowing his measure in one. Sherlock downed his in a similar fashion to John and shivered at the taste, almost coughing at the burn in his chest. He did, despite his scepticism, feel marginally better: a little heavy headed and warm. He held out the glass for a refill to which John handed over the whole tiny bottle, "I'm going to sleep now—well, back to sleep. 'Night." Without another word, John stretched out on his side and slicked off his light.

He listened to Sherlock sit very still for a moment before pouring out another whisky and draining the glass, the other light turned out shortly after, then Sherlock shuffled into a comfortable sleeping position.

John's back stiffened as Sherlock's breath played over the back of his neck, "Thank you, John," He breathed as his hand reached for the doctor's. He softly laced their fingers together at the tips, his thumb resting on John's little finger. He sighed and John relaxed again.

"You're always welcome, Sherlock." He mumbled in reply.

He could almost hear the smile on Sherlock's face. They laid like that for the rest of the night, not touching aside from their hands, their body heat warming each other in their close proximity. Lain out as bothers on a hotel bed.

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><p><strong>Well, how was that? Not too bad, eh? Only a few changes here, but there will be more to come, don't you worry... <strong>


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